


Drippin' Peaches, Camera Ready

by kermiethefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - No supernatural, Daddy Kink, Eventual Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Eventual Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester/John Winchester, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, John is Sam's "Sugar Daddy", M/M, Rating will change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: Sam was looking forward to a fun family vacation in a cabin out in the beautiful landscape of Lake Tahoe. What he got instead was Dean shoving off to find the hottest coeds and Dad taking it upon himself to fix up Uncle Bobby's old cabin, leaving him ignored, lonely, and a little pissed. Good thing Stanford student Brady was more than willing to provide a little attention. Terrified of being seen as a kid instead of the eighteen-year-old that he lied about being, Sam thought up a new lie: that his father was actually his much, much older boyfriend. Lucky for Sam, Brady bought the lie. Even luckier, it was easy for people to believe it with how openly hands-on the Winchesters were.Sam just hoped that he could keep up the lie before either party found out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Kink Meme. This is an ongoing work, and you can actually read ahead [here](https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/137161.html?thread=45335753#t45335753) if you choose! I'm just assembling them in pieces that are chapter-appropriate here.
> 
> In case it's a thing you look for: Sam is 15, Dean is 19, Brady is 19, John is what the fuck ever. Not beta-ed because life is meaningless, everything is temporary, time doesn't exist, etc. etc. etc.

It was supposed to be a family vacation.

A month in one of Bobby’s cabins—a short drive away from the glittering shore of Lake Tahoe, framed by the lush green landscape of the Nevada border in June. Dad strapped a canoe on his truck and Dean blasted classic rock the entire drive there, and Sam had felt _good_ about summer vacation for the first time since he was a little kid and Dad took them to Disneyland on a whim.

So, of course, because the universe hated Sam Winchester, it had all gone to shit since then.

Uncle Bobby had failed to mention that the cabin was in grave need of repair. Sam had spent the first day with his lungs half-hacked out with how much dust he swept out the doors. Then there was the matter of rooms—Dad took the big bedroom, Dean had next pick, and Sam was delegated to a sleeping bag on the creaky couch in the living room, because he was _fifteen_ and that meant his so-called _skinny ass_ could handle it. 

Dad had taken it upon himself to head into town each morning and get supplies to fix up the cabin—his pet project for the summer, apparently, which meant they were definitely staying longer than a month, because John Winchester never half-assed anything except making it on time to Sam’s soccer games. Dean, meanwhile, had found out where the hottest coed girls were staying his third night there, and had made it his mission to make his rounds with every giggling eighteen-year-old in sight. That left Sam with his bike—thank _God_ he convinced Dad to let him bring it to ride on trails—and a lot of free time with what he had planned to fill with fun family activities.

He’d lamented about it for most of the first week, and then he got himself out of bed—off the couch, really—and set off on his bike.

The lake wasn’t far, a mere twenty minute ride, but Sam was still red-faced and breathing hard by the time it crested in the distance. He paused on his bike at the peak of the hill, mouth popped open as he stared down the trail at the blue-green water of the lake and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.

He wondered if Dean had gotten to enjoy the view, or if he was too busy looking up skirts to care.

Bitterness propelled him lakeside, his bike neatly propped against a pine tree a few yards before the shore. If he had correctly read the map Bobby had left them—and he had, because Sam was nothing if not thorough in his research—then he was straddling the line between the end of Uncle Bobby’s land and the next property’s. There wasn’t much of the lake shore that Bobby owned—the old man was much more interested in having lots of forested acres, which had been a source of mystery and debate amongst him and Dean growing up—but Sam figured nobody was going to care about one fifteen-year-old splashing around in the water.

Sam left his shirt, backpack, and shoes on the shore, hand smoothing down the flat plane of his thin chest as he approached the water. The sand was gritty against the soles of his feet, but the water was cool on his sweat-slick skin—he quickly dipped in, dunking underwater and swimming out away from the shore in sudden, broad strokes.

There were a few lazy clouds in the sky, big and fat and white, sweeping across a sweetheart blue heading into the horizon where it was met with the deeper shade of lakewater and the far expanse of forested green. It was perfect and peaceful—as Sam floated, he imagined himself coming to this spot on family vacations of his own. 

_His_ family would appreciate the view. They’d all lumber off in a boat and fish and say things like _wow, Sam, thank you for all this hard work you did in putting together these great, fun things we could do, you really helped us make the most of this vacation and now we’re closer than ever._

Well. If Dad and Dean were hellbent on ignoring him, he wasn’t going to sit around and wait like some damsel in distress.

A sudden commotion rang out on the shore, and Sam righted himself, treading the water as he peered into the distance. A group of older teens had made their water onto the shoreline—college students, maybe, around Dean’s age—setting up beach towels and coolers not far from where Sam had dropped his own things. 

It wasn’t long until he was noticed. A blond, square-shouldered guy caught his stare, and Sam quickly dunked underwater, shyness rattling in his chest. When he reemerged, eyes just barely peeking over the waterline, the guy had turned to his friends, talking animatedly. Sam reached down and tried to tug his swim shorts a little lower—he was suddenly self-conscious of the size-too-small trunks he’d brought, a last-second find in his drawers because he’d been too stubborn to go with Dean to shop for a new one.

Sam swam back to the shore, giving the group shy side glances as he stepped back onto the sand. He tugged at his shorts again and bent to pick up his backpack, unzipping it to pull the towel out from inside.

“You don’t have to leave,” a voice called out from behind him. Sam froze before looking over his shoulder, towel draped across his back and fingers pushing back his growing hair. “You could hang with us, if you want.”

It was blond guy that noticed him before. From up close, it was obvious how strikingly attractive he was—the sort of boy-next-door looks that Sam always found his eyes gravitating towards. Not unlike his brother’s looks—and there was a thought Sam wasn’t going to touch with a ten-foot-pole—but without the vaguely rogueish, _charm my way into your pants_ swagger that Dean’s strong jaw and sharp eyes held.

Once again, Sam was going to let that thought die if he had to smother it with his owns hands.

“Oh,” he blinked, turning and looking over the guy’s shoulder at his friends, who seemed to be in various stages of friendly smiles and light-hearted indifference. Sam flushed and chewed on his lower lip. “I—I don’t wanna intrude—”

“You wouldn’t be,” the guy answered quickly. Sam shifted from one foot to the other; when he licked his lips nervously, the guy’s gaze flicked down to watch. The flush ran down Sam’s throat at the implication. “I’m Brady.”

Sam glanced down at the hand that was offered before his mind clicked back into gear, and he shook it. Brady’s hand was warm and wide against his own. “Sam,” he responded.

Brady led him over to his group, giving a mild introduction that was met with smiles and good-natured waves. They were all from Stanford, a smattering of majors—Brady was pre-med, and was impressed by Sam’s knowledge of basic first aid ( _thank you, Dad’s military training,_ Sam thought desperately). 

“So, where do you go?” Brady had asked. Sam choked on grapefruit La Croix soda.

“Um, I just graduated high school,” he lied quickly. He rolled his shoulder easily, watching as a pair of the rowdier boys in Brady’s friend group splashed a girl tanning on the shore. “I’m taking a gap year, just—figuring things out for myself.”

“Yeah?” Brady asked, and his smile turned up a few megawatts. Sam tried for something slow and sweet, and by the way Brady inched a little closer, he figured it must’ve worked. “You should consider Stanford. Campus would be brighter if you were on it.”

Sam bit back down a pleased smile—all of the focused attention, and from a guy that was _miles_ out of his league, was making his stomach heat up. “If you ask nicely,” he teased back, a bit surprised at his own boldness. 

Brady grinned back, eyes turning starry like Sam was something worth looking at. “ _Please_ , princess.”

While Sam was breathless and flustered, Brady took the opportunity to take him by the wrists and drag him over to the water.

—

It was nearly sunset by the time the illusion—and God, what a perfect fucking afternoon it had been—was shattered.

“Sammy,” came a voice off in the distance. Sam’s shoulders tensed, and he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know who was calling him. Dad had a booming voice, one that matched the size of him, and his shoulders sunk.

Brady looked behind them, their thighs touching as he did. Sam saw the moment he caught an eyeful of John goddamn Winchester, the way his brows knitted as if the gears in his brain were working. He turned to look at Sam—and Sam felt like he was being examined in the warm wash of sunset glow.

“Looks like your dad is calling,” Brady said. Pretense dropped, and Sam was being looked at like he was just some snot-nosed little kid again, like Brady was starting to figure out Sam wasn’t quite as old as he made himself seem to be.

Sam flushed. He didn’t know why the universe was so intent on knocking him down a few pegs when he was already on the floor. His mind scrambled after the attentive looks and touches that were now slipping between his fingers—he bit down on his lower lip and took in a sharp breath.

“He’s not my dad,” he exhaled quickly. Brady raised his eyebrow, unconvinced. “He just—just acts like it. He’s—” Sam pulled at straws, lamely finishing with, “—my boyfriend.”

God, that was the worst lie Sam had ever told in his life, and that included the time he tried to convince Dean he had kissed Tammy Lauter, head of the cheerleading squad and homecoming queen two years running.

“Your… boyfriend,” Brady echoed, still entirely unconvinced. 

Sam nodded. He had dug this hole, might as well light himself on fire and throw himself into it. “Sort of. He—he takes me places, buys me stuff, so I’m not complaining,” he explained.

That made Brady pause, and hope lit up in his chest. “Like a sugar daddy?”

 _Oh my God,_ Sam thought to himself desperately as he nodded again, _it’s working._

“Yeah, basically.” He sat up straighter and held his chin higher. Sam gave Brady a small smile, trying for confident and charming as best he could. “He gets self-conscious because of the age difference, so he tends to act more fatherly around other people. To be honest, he’s the only reason why I’m taking the gap year. Might as well let someone pay for me to have fun, right?” He wondered if that was pushing it a bit. He wondered if this wasn’t going to result in the most embarrassing month of his life. He wondered if he could drown in the lake or if his self-preservation skills would keep him alive.

Because of luck, or the furious internal praying Sam was doing, or karma finally swinging in his direction, Brady just nodded in return, licking his lips and letting his eyes linger on Sam’s. Sam felt heat swarm his lower stomach. “And he won’t mind that I’m talking to you?” he asked, eyebrow raising.

“Well,” Sam said. He took in a sharp breath and leaned in boldly, fingers reaching out to curl around Brady’s wrist. He flicked his eyes up to look at the college student through his bangs, offering up as coquettish of a smile as he could muster. It must’ve worked, the way Brady slowly grinned in response, a predatory and hungry smile that lit up Sam’s insides. “He doesn’t have to know what we talk about, right?”

“Sam!” Dad called out again, and Sam pushed up off the sand, brushing his legs off. Brady’s fingers found his own, and Sam turned to face him.

“Can I have your phone number?” The older teen asked, and Sam flushed, nodding numbly as he recited it, heart thumping in his chest. Brady gave him a grateful smile as he typed it out into his phone. “If you can get away from your old man, I’d love to hang out again.”

“Me too,” Sam answered. The smile he was gifted made his stomach tie up in knots.

Sam said his goodbyes, gathered his things and walked up the trail to where Dad’s truck was, perched on the dirt path he’d biked down. His bike was already in the truck bed, and Dad gave a nod down to the shore at the same time that he reached out and pulled Sam under his arm. When Sam looked back, Brady was still watching them—he was, for the first time in a long time, thankful that the Winchester boys were so accustomed to hands-on affection as Dad’s hand pressed against his back, spanning the gap between his shoulder blades. 

“Made new friends?” Dad asked, and Sam bit down a grin, shrugging nonchalantly. 

“A few,” he answered cryptically, and Dad gave him a puzzled smile in return before clapping the back of his neck and motioning to the passenger’s seat with his thumb.

“C’mon,” Dad said, getting into the driver’s side. Sam clambered in and rolled the window all the way down, breathing in the cooling summer night fresh air. “Dean’s cooking tonight.”

—

“Really? _Sam’s_ made friends?” Dean said incredulously.

Sam huffed out an annoyed little scoff as he packed his backpack—sunscreen, a change of clothes, and one of Dean’s pilfered condoms deliberately shoved to the very bottom, because Sam was nothing if not prepared—and hoisted it over his shoulder.

“Let him go,” Dad grunted as he screwed in a new lightbulb in the kitchen. “S’not like you were offerin’ to take him anywhere.”

“I could’a been,” Dean grumbled. Sam grinned, tickling his fingers up the side of Dean’s throat as he passed the couch on the way to the front door. Dean swatted at Sam’s hand and scowled.

“You’re just jealous that _my_ friends have a boat and none of the girls you’re screwing do,” Sam teased smugly. 

Dad barked out laughter and Dean sunk into the couch, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m just _saying_ , it ain’t safe for a kid to go off wandering by himself with strangers,” Dean shot out, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“They’re just local high school kids,” Dad offered, and Sam nodded, trying to keep his face passive in the lie that he’d told Dad and Dean over dinner, “besides, Sammy’s a good kid. He’s not like you, Dean. He doesn’t go off drinkin’ and tryin’ to kiss the first girl throws eyes at him.”

Sam flushed, hiding it with a cough in the crease of his elbow. It was true, technically. Brady was very much _not_ a girl. “Alright, I’m off!” he called loudly, just as Dean stood to try to argue his point more.

“Be safe and call if you run into any trouble,” Dad answered against Dean’s louder, more pressing “Bitch!”. 

It was a short ways to the main road, and then an easy, mostly downhill ride to where Brady’s friend—Lauren, or Lisa, or something like that—had a family cabin that was, apparently, decked out. Sam didn’t get great reception where they were, but he’d been careful to remember the route his phone provided in case it cut out on the bike ride there. As he rounded the street, Sam could already tell it was going to be a ridiculous affair—the first cabin on the street was twice as big as his actual house.

Brady was standing outside, eyes on his phone before they shot up to connect with Sam’s. He grinned and waved, and Sam rose a hand off the handlebar to wave back, already flushing.

Yeah, he was definitely going to try to kiss Brady.

The house was a lakeshore property, and Brady walked close by Sam’s side as they headed down the docks to the boat. It was another quick introduction—Sam’s head was reeling at how many people Brady knew—before they climbed into the yacht (and Sam was having a hard time wrapping his mind around that, too, people were so ridiculously rich, it made his stomach twist up painfully). 

Sam tried not to think about it too hard, worried his shocked expression would make Brady rethink the whole _sugar daddy_ thing—once he did, it was surprisingly easy to enjoy himself. He chugged down a beer with a grin, pushed Brady into the calm waters then jumped in after him, and relaxed under the warm sun on the boat, stretching out his long legs and closing his eyes against the light. He was starting to feel a little too-warm, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, when the sunlight was blotted out; he fluttered his eyes open, stomach heating up when he saw Brady hovering above him.

“You’re blocking out the sun,” Sam teased, smiling softly, and Brady grinned in response, moving to sit beside him. Boldly, fueled by the tangling in his stomach and the carefree lightness in his chest, Sam tilted his head to rest on Brady’s shoulder. 

“Sam,” Brady murmured quietly, and Sam inclined his head towards the older man; his breath hitched in his throat when Brady pushed in for a kiss.

Sam’s first kiss. The first one that counted, at least, that one time at Anna’s thirteenth birthday party not included. He blinked hard before Brady’s hand came to cup his cheek, and Sam melted into the kiss, parting his lips nervously when a tongue came out to swipe against it.

He thought he did a pretty good job at not seeming like an absolute virgin. Brady’s flushed throat and dark eyes seemed to confirm it.

“Don’t think your Daddy’ll approve of that,” Brady said, voice a low rumble, and Sam licked his lower lip and shook his head.

His mouth twitched up in a soft, coy smile—he pushed forward and pressed a chaste kiss against Brady’s lips. “Good thing Daddy isn’t here,” he answered.

Sam checked his phone as the sun was going down, but it was mostly just Dean’s persistent texts about where he was and what he was doing and who he was with, which made Sam roll his eyes. Dean was always so protective, ever since their mom died in his bedroom when he was a baby, but this was a bit excessive—he tossed his phone back into his backpack as the boat approached the dock. Brady hopped out before him and extended a hand to help him out; the gesture, while unnecessary, sent a pleasurable wave of heat through his chest.

“We’re gonna head into town and grab a bite to eat,” Brady said once Sam had emerged from the guest bathroom dressed in his spare change of clothes. “You wanna come with?”

The look on Brady’s face was so hopeful that Sam couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.

Dinner, apparently, was code for sneaking drinks at the local bar. Sam didn’t have a fake ID, but Brady and all his friends did—the bar served food, too, so Sam wasn’t worried about getting caught as long as he wasn’t gallivanting up to the bartender. He stuck close by Brady’s side, close enough to hold his hand; a part of Sam wanted to, even reached for it, when—

“Oh my God,” Sam blurted out, eyes wide. Brady turned to look at him, then followed his gaze across the bar.

There, at a table by himself and slightly facing the flatscreen on the wall, was John Winchester.

“Isn’t that—?” Brady started, and Sam turned quickly, back facing his father.

“We should go,” Sam hushed out under his breath, even as Brady’s group continued to find seating. Brady stood with Sam by the entrance, and Sam dug his fingers into Brady’s forearm. “Before he sees me. He thinks we’re just friends, he doesn’t know—”

“Sam,” Dad called out, voice pitched up in surprise. Sam closed his eyes and cursed internally. “What’re you doing here?”

Sam turned, smiling thinly at his father as he mechanically made his way to the table. Brady followed behind at an awkwardly respectable distance. “Hi, Da—” Sam started, catching himself at the last second, “Daddy.”

John gave him a curious look but didn’t push it. Luck must’ve really been on Sam’s side. “Who’s this?” he asked, nodding to Brady. Sam stepped closer to his father; he wasn’t sure if he was thankful or concerned when Dad immediately put his hand on his lower back once he was close enough. 

“He’s the new friend I told you about. Brady,” Sam explained. 

Dad nodded, though Sam could tell he was trying to figure out if Brady was about as old as Sam had led him to believe. He was Dean’s age, could easily play a mature-looking high school senior—Sam fidgeted against his father’s hand and waited for his response.

“Pretty sure none of you are old enough to drink,” Dad said, raising an eyebrow. He turned his head towards Sam, reaching out to chuck underneath his chin. “You least of all, Sammy.”

Sam’s face heated up, praying to God that Dad didn’t push it any further—praying that _Brady_ didn’t push it any further. He glanced sideways at Brady, but the older teen looked nervous, intimidated under the intense attention of his father.

Something fluttered in his stomach at the thought. Dad was always a hard-ass, especially as Sam started getting older and pushed for independence, some last-ditch effort to protect his youngest kid—he guessed Dean had that in common with Dad. Sam was used to Dad’s particular brand of hard-ass, so it didn’t really faze him much; seeing Brady shaken up by it had something warm lighting up in Sam’s chest.

The protectiveness was for _Sam_. It felt good.

“No, sir,” Brady answered, taking a sharp breath and meeting Dad’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Dad watched him for a moment before the straight line of his mouth tilted upwards into a sly, easy-going smile. He shrugged his shoulders, and Sam’s mouth popped open in soft surprise. “Well, as long as you have the IDs to back it up, I won’t say anythin’,” he said smoothly. He reached into his wallet, pulled out two twenties, and slid them across the table to Brady. “First round’s on me, kids.”

Sam smiled warmly, lips blooming upwards into a grin as he met Brady’s eyes. The older teen took the money, nodding at Dad with a grateful smile. “Thank you, sir,” he managed.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Sam breathed out, reaching out to sling an arm around his father’s neck in a half-hug. Dad seemed surprised by the contact, but let out a soft huff of laughter and smoothed his hand down Sam’s back anyway.

“‘Course, Sammy. Don’t drink too much, alright? Had enough days carrying you to bed, my back’s not made out for it,” Dad said. Sam’s throat flushed all the way down at the implications that Dad didn’t even know he was making, and he braved a brief kiss to Dad’s stubbled cheek as he pulled away. 

Dad looked touched, maybe. Sam bit his lower lip and smothered the strange fluttering in his stomach at the sweet-stunned look on Dad’s face before he turned and followed Brady to the booth his friends were at.

Sam nursed his beer over the next hour, eyes continuously checking on his father; Dad did little more than order a few more beers and a burger, which Sam frowned about. It was a constant source of contention in their household—Sam was always trying to get Dad and Dean to eat healthier. When Dad passed to go to the bathroom, Sam stopped him with his fingers delicately reaching out for John’s wrist; he felt his cheeks blush when Dad stopped, the entire table looking at Sam curiously.

“You shouldn’t—be eating a burger so late at night,” Sam said, voice petering out towards the end of his sentence as he suddenly grew shy and embarrassed. 

Dad let out a soft, affectionate scoff. He cupped Sam’s chin and Sam had to force himself not to press into it, that same glow from earlier lighting up in Sam’s stomach. “Always lookin’ out for me, huh?” he asked. Sam bit back a smile under his father’s acute attention. “Good boy. Don’t worry, I’ll work off the calories later.”

He stepped away and back onto his path, disappearing into the men’s bathroom, and Sam felt his entire face flush with heat.

“Damn,” Brady said, breaking the silence that had fallen over the table. “I thought you said he was self-conscious about public stuff.”

“Normally,” Sam managed, fingers finding his beer glass as he kept his eyes trained on the condensation pooling on the table. “I guess he’s feeling—affectionate.”

His other side was elbowed—Marnie, art history major, who may-or-may-not have been dating Leanne, whose family owned the ridiculously sized cabin-mansion (Sam was starting to figure out identities, which made it easier to feel welcomed and relaxed)—and he was greeted with a sly grin. “He’ll _’work off the calories later’_ , Sam. You are _so_ getting fucked tonight,” she teased, and Sam sputtered out his sip of beer.

 _God_. If only they knew. Brady helped him sop up his spit-take, gentle as he wiped off Sam’s chin with his napkin. “Beer goes _in_ the mouth, not out,” he joked, and Sam flushed further.

He didn’t have much trouble finishing off the last of his beer or the better part of the next two—anxiety rolled in his stomach, the constant worry that Dad or Brady or both would find out his secret. Sam found himself watching his father more than he’d like, always turning to see Brady’s curious look and offering an embarrassed, thin smile in return. By the time he had finished his third beer, his head was pleasantly humming, a low-level buzz that had him tipping over into Brady’s arm with a warm flush.

He smiled sloppily up at Brady, giggling at his bright, if not worried, grin in return, before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Daddy!” Sam piped up, blinking up at his father with a smile before realizing maybe he was a little _too_ tipsy. His smile turned sheepish as his fingertips not-so-conspicuously pushed the empty bottles away; Dad’s frown just deepened.

Dad heaved out a heavy sigh, hand dragging through his beard. Sam remembered being really little and scratching his fingers through it. He reached his hands up to refamiliarize himself with the feeling, fingers slapping uncoordinatedly against John’s chin.

“Alright, Sammy, I’m dragging your ass home,” Dad grumbled, and Sam let out a disappointed whine. “If I’d known you were such a goddamn lightweight, I wouldn’t have let you drink at all.”

“I’m fine,” Sam answered petulantly. He dropped his hands to fold his arms across his chest. “Besides, _Daddy_ , Brady’s s’posed to drive me home, it’s called _manners_.” Sam snorted out a giggle. Dad didn’t seem to get his joke; the way his eyebrows knitted up made Sam start doubting there was a joke there in the first place, which was ridiculous. Sam was _hilarious_ , even if Dean never laughed at any of his jokes.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Dad said, reaching down to haul Sam up by his underarms. Sam went lax, a ragdoll in his father’s sure grip as if it would make it difficult—as if all five foot seven and a hundred-and-thirty pounds of him was anything to his broad-shouldered father—and let out another high-pitched whine when Dad succeeded in hoisting him into his arms. Dad tucked him into his side, arm held tight around Sam’s waist, and Sam scowled. “Don’t give me that look or I ain’t helpin’ you out tomorrow when you get a fuckin’ hangover over three beers.”

Sam just pouted. Dad rolled his eyes.

“Say goodnight to your friends,” Dad instructed.

Sam turned his head to the table, meeting their amused looks with a polite smile and a nod of his head. “Goodnight, friends,” he echoed, then giggled. Dad huffed out a laugh, and Sam felt his insides swell with pride. He shoved his fingers into Dad’s cheek, pushing his head away and snorting out another burst of laughter. “You’re silly, Daddy.”

“You are,” Dad shot back immediately. He turned to the table, and Sam followed his eyes, giving another smile at Brady when their eyes met. “Night, all. Thanks for watchin’ Sammy.”

“No worries, sir,” Brady piped up. Sam wanted to reach out and kiss him again. “I’ll, uh, text you later, alright, Sam?”

Sam gave him a wink. Dad gave Sam a look. Brady gave Sam a look, too, just a touch more alarmed and worried. Sam slapped his hand down on Dad’s chest, a heavy thump that had Dad letting out a grunt. “Alright, _sir_ , allons-y. Á la maison!”

“I thought you were takin’ Spanish?” Dad asked, wheeling him around and guiding him along to the door.

“Sí,” Sam answered, leaning in close—the sudden movement made his head spin, stomach rolling, so he rested his head on Dad’s shoulder, blinking fast. “Soy un misterio.”

Dad let out a rumble of laughter, and Sam hummed against the feeling of it vibrating where his cheek was pressed, hand reaching up to press against the center of his father’s chest so he could feel it better. “I really hope you remember this shit tomorrow, kiddo. Gonna make one hell of a story.”

—

Sam didn’t have a hangover the next morning, thank God. What he did have, however, was half a dozen texts from Brady and the overwhelming embarrassment of his actions the previous night. He buried his face into the pillow and groaned until Dean came out of his room and threw his pillow at his ass.

Dad approached with coffee, and Sam took it gratefully. His father really was a saint, missed soccer games and theatre shows be damned.

“Y’know, you haven’t called me _daddy_ since you were eight or nine,” Dad said thoughtfully, and Sam nearly choked on his coffee. “Maybe being drunk makes you feel like a little kid.”

Today was a chill day with Brady—Leanne was hosting a horror movie marathon at her parents’ cabin, and then the group was planning on playing after dark hide-and-seek—and Sam regretted joining in the second he walked into the house.

“Good to see you’re walking just fine,” Derek called out, and Marnie reached out and punched his arm.

“Dammit, Derek,” she groaned, “you stole my fuckin’ joke.”

Sam buried his face into his palms. Brady’s thumbs massaging comfort into his shoulders helped. Brady making out with him in Leanne’s ridiculous theater room helped even more.

All comments about his father aside, Sam was really enjoying himself. He liked Brady, a _lot_ , enough to consider biting the bullet and telling him his real age in case Brady still wanted to communicate after they’d parted ways. His stomach was still tied up in knots about it—he was so far into the lie that to tell the truth now would be the absolute worst—and he told himself resolutely that if Brady asked, _seriously_ asked, Sam would tell him the truth.

Otherwise, he’d keep it up until the second Brady had to leave. That way, if Brady wanted nothing to do with him after knowing, Sam never had to see him again.

When he was with Brady and his friends, he could endure the comments. Whenever he stepped out with his father, however—that’s when Sam’s anxiety ramped up a thousand percent, constantly worried about every glance that was given their way, convinced the rumor had gone around about their fake relationship. All it took was one person to say something and everything would come collapsing down on Sam’s precariously built lie.

With every passing day, Sam felt dread drop cold in his stomach; it was only ever smoothed away with Brady’s warm smile or the feeling of Dad’s hand on the back of his neck. 

He didn’t like what that meant.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sammy, hand me a beer,” Dad murmured, and Sam pushed himself off the lawn chair and reached into the cooler. He grabbed a can with his fingertips, hissing at how cold it was, before handing it to his father. Dad deliberated for a moment before pressing the can to the back of his bare thigh—Sam let out a little yelp, struggling against the large hand that came to wrap around his leg to hold him in place as he received the unjust torture. Dad let out a soft trail of rough-worn laughter, patting his hip before letting him go free after Sam was sufficiently red-faced.

The group of older teens a few yards away stared, and Sam felt his entire face flush with embarrassment as he sat back in his chair. He wondered if they thought he and Dad were together—they were about Brady’s age, could easily know about him. He wondered how many people knew about him in the first place. He raised a finger and chewed on his nail nervously.

Dad reached over and grabbed his wrist, thumb smoothing over his wristbone. Sam felt his stomach heat up. 

“You okay, kiddo?” Dad asked, brows furrowing. Sam wondered how Dad couldn’t see how touchy-feely he was. He wondered if he knew and just didn’t care. His large palm moved to settle over Sam’s throat, and Sam tried his hardest not to lean into it. “You’ve been jumpy ever since we left the house.”

“I’m fine,” Sam lied. Just another lie to add to the hundreds he’d told, and they were all stacking up in his chest. “Just… a lot of people on the beach, I guess.”

Dad gave him a searching look but decided not to pursue whatever he saw. His hand dropped to squeeze Sam’s thigh before it fell away completely. “Well, Bobby ain’t got a lot of lakefront property, and I thought you might like hittin’ up a public place for once, maybe catch your friends here,” Dad explained. He half-turned to Sam, clearing his throat. “I’m startin’ to cook out here, anyway. We can head into town, grab some supplies, and go back to the house? I’ll get Dean to come home, we can have a game night like we used to.”

Sam suddenly felt inexplicably, emotionally grateful towards his father. A day in was exactly what he needed—no pretenses, no lies, no falsities that he had to uphold. Just kicking ass at Monopoly and Sorry and making Dean throw fake money everywhere when he inevitably lost. 

“Yeah, Dad,” Sam answered quietly, offering up a small, dimpled smile. Dad leaned over in his chair and kissed the side of Sam’s head, making Sam’s guts flutter again. “Sounds perfect.”

They packed up, tossing everything into the truck and heading into town. Dad seemed to be in a chipper mood—Sam thought maybe it had to do with him being more open than he had the last few years since he became a teenager, but he would never ask—and had his arm slung around Sam’s shoulders as they walked down the aisles of the grocery store, picking out junk food for the night. Sam was starting to feel at ease, already eager to start their family night in, when an older man, about Dad’s age, passed by and let out a grunt.

“S’not right,” the man muttered, and Dad turned, raising an eyebrow. Sam’s heart shot up to his throat, and he immediately pressed his fingers against Dad’s chest, feeling his father tense up at his side. “Ain’t right what you did at the bar other night, too.”

“What’d you say?” Dad asked, voice low and quiet.

“Leave it, it’s okay, let’s just go,” Sam said under his breath, but the stranger stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

“Said, it ain’t right, you an’ him at the bar the other night,” the man said louder.

Dad rumbled underneath his palms. “You tellin’ me what I can and can’t let him do?” he asked. Sam’s face blanched when he realized that Dad thought the guy was talking about Dad letting him drink.

“I’m telling you it’s a goddamn disgrace, a grown ass man like you paradin’ around with a kid,” the man finally spat out. Sam’s stomach sunk, and he felt cold fear course through his spine. It seemed to catch Dad off guard, brows knitting in confusion. “Guys like you make me sick. He’s a fuckin’ kid for Chrissakes.”

“I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to insinuate, buddy,” Dad answered, trying to step forward. Sam did his best to keep his father back, but he still stumbled back a step.

The guy snorted derisively. “Don’t try and play pretend, _buddy_. I heard what he and those kids were sayin’ about the two of you. Guys like you that pay kids like him to hang around and date ‘em—you’re just as pathetic as guys payin’ their way for ass.”

“What?” Dad turned his attention on Sam now, and Sam’s throat closed up; he grabbed John’s arm and dragged him away, leaving behind their cart full of snacks. His father followed along through his pure shock and confusion—when Sam glanced backwards, the stranger was shaking his head disapprovingly.

Sam managed to pull Dad all the way out the store to the parking lot before his father wrenched his arm away, grabbing Sam’s elbow and spinning him around. “What the fuck was that guy talking about, you and your friends sayin’ that kinda stuff?” he demanded, and Sam gave a cursory glance around the parking lot.

“Can we _please_ talk about this in the car?” he begged, and Dad took in a steadying breath before he pulled his keys from his pocket.

Judging by the way Dad slammed his door closed, Sam knew he was in trouble. He’d been dreading his conversation ever since the lie came out of his mouth—there was a part of him, however, that was relieved to get it over with. He fidgeted in the passenger’s seat in silence under the heavy, unrelenting stare of his father.

“Samuel, explain,” Dad barked out, and Sam flinched.

“I just—listen, Dad, it’s stupid, okay? It’s really stupid, and I messed up, and I’m sorry—“ Sam started quickly, a rapid burst of words, and Dad shook his head.

“What did he mean by what you and your friends were talkin’ about at the bar?” Dad asked again, and Sam twisted his fingers in his lap. 

“I—it wasn’t supposed to be anything serious—“ Sam tried.

Dad slammed a hand on the steering wheel, and Sam jumped, heart shooting up into his throat. He felt tears rise in his chest and he smothered the sensation down, sniffling hard and swallowing thickly so he didn’t cry. “Dammit, Sam, just tell me the truth!”

“I told Brady you weren’t my dad,” Sam answered, voice breaking where it was torn from his throat. “I told him—I told him you were my boyfriend.”

Dad stared him silently, incredulous and upset. Sam gave him a side glance before his dropped his gaze into his lap. “Why the hell would you say that?” Dad demanded.

“I wanted him to think I was older.” Sam rubbed at his eye, willing the scratchiness in them to go away. “I wanted—he was—he’s nineteen, he’s in college, and I just—I like him, okay? And I wanted—he was really nice and he seemed into me and I made a stupid decision, I made a really stupid fucking decision and I’m _sorry_ , I’m really sorry, Dad—“

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dad breathed out. When Sam brought his eyes back up, Dad had his face in his hands, shoulders tense and tight. “Fucking Christ, Sam, do you know what this makes me look like? Do you know how wrong that is?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam hiccupped. When he raised a hand to his eyes again, he realized he was crying; the realization made him cry harder. “I’m sorry, it’s not like that, Dad, it was only because I didn’t want to seem like a little kid—you and Dean were ignoring me and I just—I felt lonely and I have fun when I’m with him and I just—I’m sorry—“

Dad let out a heavy sigh that sounded painful to Sam’s ears. He hiccupped again, hitching in breaths between sobs, and he felt a whimper drag out of his throat when Dad’s hand came to his back and rubbed circles into it. “Hey, Sammy…” Dad started, and Sam let out a wail, arms reaching out to wrap around his father’s neck. Dad held him there, quiet as he soothed his hand down Sam’s back.

Sam shook in his father’s arms, against his father’s chest. “I’m sorry, it was so stupid, I’ve been—I’ve felt sick worrying about when you’d find out,” he cried, and Dad’s let out a low shush near his ear, hand moving to rest on the back of his neck.

“This isn’t over, Sammy, I’m still—I’m still wrapping my head around it, and we’re gonna talk about it when I’m done processing it, but I just—I’m not mad at you,” Dad murmured. Sam’s chest heaved as he took in a sharp, stuttered breath. “I’m not mad at you, alright, kiddo? Don’t cry, you’re okay. You’re okay, alright, Sammy?”

Sam nodded. He didn’t feel okay, not even remotely, but it helped knowing that Dad wasn’t mad at him. He pulled back slowly, ashamed by his breakdown—he wiped at his eyes roughly until Dad put his hands on his wrists. He blinked hard and sniffled as his father took over the job, gentle where his palms wiped away underneath his eyes and nose.

His stomach felt knotted up, and he wasn’t sure why.

“Let’s go home, kiddo. I think we need to take a break for a bit,” Dad said, and Sam nodded again.

Even if Dad’s shoulders never relaxed, he never took his hand off the back of Sam’s neck, and for that, Sam was eternally grateful.

—

It was a tense and awkward afternoon. Sam opted to curl up on Dean’s bed rather than be around Dad as he gingerly walked around the cabin trying to find something to fix as a distraction. He didn’t have any more tears in him, but it was still a comfort to bury his face into Dean’s scent and breathe in deep.

He’d spent a lot of sleepless nights in Dean’s bed, curled up on his side with his big brother’s hand washing down his back and offering comfort. All he was missing now was his older brother. 

It was a couple hours past dinnertime when Dad finally knocked on the door, stirring Sam away from his phone where he’d been looking through Facebook. He pushed up on his elbow and faced the door as Dad opened it a crack, peeking his head inside.

“Hey, Sammy… I’m gonna go and get dinner. You hungry?” he asked.

Sam was, his stomach rumbling insistently. He thought about saying no, anyway, but dropped his eyes and nodded, rubbing at his eyes and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll just be a minute,” he croaked out, and Dad nodded, eyeing him sympathetically before he shut the door. 

Sam took in a few calming breaths to ease the way his stomach was rolling through his hunger. If Dad was going to be normal about things, then Sam could do the same. He plastered on a fake smile and forged on, climbing into the truck beside his father. 

Which, of course, was exactly when the universe continued to fuck him straight into the ground.

His face paled when Dad pulled into the parking lot of the same bar they’d been a few nights earlier. He turned, opening his mouth to talk—Dad held up his hand, heaving out a sigh.

“I know. It’s the only thing that’s open this late for food on a Sunday, I already checked,” Dad explained easily. Sam sunk into his chair, pressing his palms against his face. “C’mon, Sammy. Suck it up and be a man. Gotta face your shit eventually.”

“I was hoping it wasn’t gonna be so soon,” Sam lamented into his fingers. When Dad chuckled, Sam braved a deep breath and sat up. “No burgers,” he leveled, raising a finger up. 

Dad rolled his eyes. “No tellin’ people I’m your boyfriend,” he countered, and Sam flushed.

“I deserved that,” he said sheepishly, and Dad grinned in agreement before pushing out of the truck.

They both ended up getting burgers in the end—Dad had given him an amused look when Sam had ordered, and Sam had shot him back an unamused one back—which tasted better than Sam was expecting. Dad allowed him soda or water, which Sam had no complaints against, and Sam had glanced around the bar to make sure the stranger from the grocery store wasn’t there.

He wasn’t, thank God, and neither was Brady or any of his friends. Sam let himself rest a little bit easier.

Dad went to grab another drink, and Sam had his eyes on the game playing on the flatscreen nearest to the table when somebody approached the table.

“Hey there,” a deep voice said, and Sam’s eyes widened a bit as he turned around, blinking up at the older man resting his arm on the top of the booth. “Damn, you’re even prettier up close.”

Sam flushed, fingers tightening around his glass. “Um,” he started nervously—the guy was definitely attractive, the sort of tall and broad that Sam liked, but he must’ve been in his twenties at least, and was eyeing him with the intent of eating him up. “Thank you?”

The guy laughed, casting a glance around the bar. “You here by yourself?” he asked, and Sam turned his head to the bar counter; Dad was nowhere to be seen, and Sam’s mouth went dry with panic. 

“I—I’m here with someone,” he answered immediately. His eyes searched the bar for his father, his throat closing up. “He’ll be back soon.”

The guy looked unconvinced, or unfazed, maybe. Either way, he slid into the booth across from Sam, sliding on a charming smile that reminded Sam of the way Dean’s grin turned predatory when he was met with a pretty faced girl. 

“I mean, no harm in a little casual conversation, right?” Sam shifted uncomfortably under the man’s heavy gaze, mouth unable to form the words he wanted to say. There was something dangerous about him, something dark in his eyes that made fear settle cold in his guts. “How ‘bout I buy you a drink, beautiful?”

“I’m—I’m fine, thank you, I have a drink,” Sam replied, smiling thinly and holding up his glass. 

“C’mooon,” the man drawled out, leaning in closer, “you’re not gonna turn down _one_ drink, right?”

“He said no,” came Dad’s low growl, and Sam’s head snapped to the side, relief washing over him so rapidly he felt dizzy for a second. 

The man didn’t budge, leveling a glare at Dad. “What’s it to you, old man? Why don’t you piss off back to the fuckin’ senior citizens’ lodge and leave us alone.”

“It matters to me,” Dad growled, and Sam let out an embarrassing squeak of shock as the table jostled when his father grabbed the man by the shirt, dragging him onto his feet, “because he’s _mine_.”

The words shot liquid heat straight into Sam’s stomach.

“Hey, fuck you, man,” the guy spat. He planted his feet and shoved at Dad’s shoulders, narrowing his eyes—Sam could see the bartender watching the scene, alert with one hand on the phone.

“Take this outside or settle down,” the bartender barked. Sam stared at the two men before him with wide eyes, watching their tense shoulders and clenched fists. It was a long, nerve wracking moment of silence before Dad stepped back—Sam reached for him, fingers curling into the back of his shirt once he was within reach.

The man sneered, fixing his jacket before dragging the back of his hand across his chin. “Not even fuckin’ worth it,” he said, quiet enough to seem like it was meant for himself but loud enough for Sam to hear. “Looks like a whore, acts like a frigid bitch.”

Dad’s shirt flew out of Sam’s grasp, and Sam stared in horror as his father knocked the guy back with one heavy punch across his jaw.

There was a flurry of commotion—Sam was paralyzed with shock as the man slammed his fist into Dad’s face, but pushed himself into action by the time his father got in a few more licks. He wrapped his arms around John’s back and planted his heels hard, using all his force to keep him back. Sam was certain the only reason he’d succeeded was because the creep had been laid out on his ass, holding his bloody nose.

Dad’s chest heaved underneath his palms. Sam pressed his face between his father’s shoulder blades and breathed in deep—he could feel Dad’s breath stutter when he did. 

“Look—” the bartender started, and John finally sunk back, pulling away from Sam’s arms to grab his jacket from the booth. He pulled out cash from his wallet to cover the bill, movements sharp and angry.

“We’re goin’,” he shot out gruffly; his arm fell across Sam’s lower back, and Sam stifled a squeak as his father pushed him forward, fingers digging into his hip. They stepped around the man as he dragged himself off the ground, throwing a dirty look at Dad. 

The one John gave back was fatal enough to kill.

They drove home in silence. There were a thousand things that Sam wanted to say, to ask—the more he stewed on his thoughts, the more upset he became, embarrassed by his father’s display of aggression. There was still something hot settling in his guts, something that Sam didn’t want to name, even if he knew what it was; he breathed in deep and stared out the window. 

It wasn’t until Sam got a good look at his father under the cabin lights that he saw the cut across Dad’s cheekbone and the trail of blood smeared across his jaw.

“Jesus, Dad,” Sam breathed out. He grabbed the front of Dad’s shirt and dragged him over to the breakfast table, forcing him to sit before he headed to the kitchen to grab the first aid kit.

Dad was quiet as Sam cleaned the wound, tilting his head up and watching Sam in a way that left his stomach muddled and warm. His fingers were gentle on his father’s face, even as he chastised. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly, tutting. Dad’s eyes slid away, somewhere to the left of Sam’s head. “It was embarrassing.”

“Watching your old man get hit in public?” Dad asked, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Watching you act all—all alpha male,” Sam pushed out, flushing. His stomach felt unsettled and hot remembering the look on Dad’s face, the intense fury; he smothered the way his stomach flipped thinking about it. “You said I was yours,” he recalled. He smoothed a fingertip of Neosporin on the cut.

Dad didn’t even flinch. His fingers curled around Sam’s wrist loosely. “You _are_ mine,” he asserted quietly. Sam’s breath hitched. “You’re my boy.”

Dad reached up and placed a hand on his hip, hanging his head a little. Sam felt locked into place by the weight of it, hovering too-close in front of his father, so close that Dad could put his lips to his navel if he wanted.

If he wanted. Sam wasn't sure that he would dislike it if Dad wanted. 

“Look, Sammy…” Dad started, jolting Sam out of his thoughts; his father lifted his head to look at him properly. “I know it’s not easy on you. Half the time I treat you like a kid, the other half I make you act like an adult. It’s just—it’s tough raising two boys on your own, y’know?” Dad confessed. Sam watched him drag his hand across his jaw, watched how it scraped against the stubble there. “And I know I get protective. Hell, Sammy, I think that I’m allowed that, at least.”

“I can handle myself, Dad, I’m not stupid,” Sam blurted out.

Dad heaved out a long sigh. “I know, Sam, I know, I just—” He turned away, staring at the wall before he leveled his gaze back at Sam. “I worry, y’know? I don’t care that you like guys, Sam, I really don’t, but it ain’t like girls. You gotta be careful.”

Sam bit his tongue against the flashfire defensiveness that came rearing up in his chest. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, watching his father. “Why? Why do I have to be careful, and Dean doesn’t? Why’s it me?” 

“Because guys only want one thing, Sammy!” Dad burst out. His voice was tinged with gravel, coming out as an exasperated growl that left Sam’s guts feeling like mush. The grip on his hip tightened. “Listen, you’re a beautiful boy. You go out, you talk to men, they’re gonna look at you and only see one thing.”

“And what do you see?” Sam shot back. It was stupid, such a stupid question—he didn’t know what he was trying to prove by asking it. Maybe he wanted to see how deep Dad’s protectiveness lied. Maybe he wanted Dad to admit something taboo—the very thought made his guts knot up. 

“You’re my son,” Dad croaked out. The torn up sound of his voice made Sam’s stomach ache, his hands itching. This was going too far, wasn’t it? This had ceased to fall in a realm of appropriate father-son relationship. 

Dad continued, and his words made Sam’s breath hitch. “I see so much more of you than that.”

A part of Sam’s brain begged his father to tell him what he saw; a part of him needed to know. The other part, still fragile and frightened of the way his heartbeat wouldn’t settle, tried to smother it. Sam smoothed the Band-Aid over the cut, thumbs soft where they trailed away from the bandage and over his father’s skin.

“Sammy,” Dad called out. Quiet, deep—it sounded faraway to Sam’s ears. 

With trembling lips, he bent down and kissed the dressed wound, hands dropping to press against his father’s shoulders.

Dad’s breath stuttered sharply. Then, silently, hesitantly, Sam felt Dad’s hand move from his hip to his lower back, pulling him in even as Sam leaned back to watch John’s face.

There was a pause, tense and mute, and Sam felt everything in him grow hot at the unwavering look his father pinned him with. Dad’s fingers found the back of his neck, tugging him down, and warm, dry lips pushed against his own—a lingering press that was nothing more than their mouths meeting.

It was over quick. Dad patted the back of his neck and stood; Sam stumbled back half a step to accommodate. He blinked quick, breathing like he’d forgotten how, at the gentleness of his father’s hand as it cupped his cheek.

“Night, Sammy,” Dad said, his voice raw and torn and deep; the sound carved out Sam’s chest with heated attraction. John didn’t wait for his answer, and Sam was left weak-kneed and dazed in the middle of the living room when his father closed the bedroom door.


End file.
